


"I made your favourite."

by Wrathofscribbles



Series: 100 ways (to say I love you) [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 18:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16665895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: It's just a common cold, nothing to worry about.Oh how very wrong he is.





	"I made your favourite."

**Author's Note:**

> **Big bold reminder that Final Fantasy XV and all of its content is property of Square Enix.** I just like to play in the sandpit they've created for the fans.
> 
> It was supposed to be light and fluffy, and then it turned into this mess :T

He finds Luna much the same way he’d left her - curled up on the bed and swaddled in as many blankets as he could possibly charm the hotel staff to part with.  He thinks she might have moved a little, her legs stretched out a bit more, but he can’t be certain for all the layers.  And there at either side of the bed are the two most loyal dogs he’s ever come across, so much more than “man’s best friend”.  The ultimate sentries, the most gifted he could have asked to work with had he even known where to start.  Pryna for her ability to plague any living creature with ghastly visions and Umbra poised to whisk Luna through the eddies of time itself at a moment’s notice, eyes alight with that Astral-granted power, not cooling even when Nyx announces his presence and raises a solitary mug as explanation.

“I made your favourite,” he says softly, loathe to disturb her if she’s finally found some rest but no, there, a flash of one socked foot as the lump of Luna sheds some of her armour, brushing blanket and quilt aside and peeling back the corners to fix him with a bleary stare.

“Nyx?”

“Hey, Princess.”

“I didn’t hear you leave,” muffled against the back of her hand, garbled by a yawn, and he chances a few steps closer, eyes on her guards.  Meeting Umbra’s stare is like looking at the sun, blinding and bright and absolute _hell_ for the eyes, but then the dog bows his head and flops down on his side with a grumble only dogs can produce and Nyx’s path to the bed is clear, the bedside cabinet, too, where he carefully sets down the mug and succeeds - somehow - in completing his trip from the kitchen without spilling a single drop of the precious contents.   _Victory is sweet._

“Bonus of sneaking in and out of enemy lines, you learn how to flirt with the shadows.”  All joking aside, however… he plonks down beside her and presses his wrist to her bone-pale forehead, breathing a sigh of relief when he discovers the deathly chill has _finally_ abandoned its hold on her skin.  He’s aware of her scrutiny, a weighted thing despite the sleep lining her face in adorable creases he’s tactful enough to avoid mentioning, and not once does it cross his mind to hide from her, to fall back on old habits and hunt down the indifferent mask he used to fit over his face whenever he had to stand in on council meetings and listen to those contrary, privileged fools bicker amongst themselves and rarely get around to implementing anything actually beneficial for one district, let alone the entire damn city.

_And look where they wound up._

“You’re looking better,” he says instead, forcefully redirecting his thoughts away from another home lost _(was it ever a home?  Was it really?)_ , wondering where to put his hands, what to do with them, and takes up one of the blankets as distraction, drops his gaze to follow the path of his fingers over the geometric patterns and the holes worn through the flimsy material, stomping down on the urge to pluck at them and fray them some more until it’s an absolute ruin just like everything else he touches.  Well.  Almost everything.

“I feel it.  You shouldn’t concern yourself overmuch with my health, Nyx.  A common cold won’t do much to stop me.”

“With all due respect, Luna, don’t feed me that bullshit.  You’ve been asleep half the day and I’ve seen corpses with better colour.”  Except for - no, he’s done damn well to burn that image from his mind, he’s not dwelling on it now.  He’s not opening that door again, he _can’t_.

Not with another little sister lost.

Luna levers herself up on her own power and he’s _not_ fussing when he rearranges the covers over her legs once she’s settled against the headboard, it’s just the done thing when a companion’s sick.  He’d even do it for the dogs, provided they didn’t try to chomp his hands off, first.  “You mentioned making my favourite? How did you know?”

“Ah, that.  I might have called your _darling_ brother.  From a disposable phone.  A good number of miles away from here.  With Umbra’s help.  Also, why the hell did you never think to -”

“ _You_ called Ravus?”

“Yeah?”

“And he isn’t kicking this door down as we speak.”

_“Good fucking luck to him.”_

“And you’re still _alive_?”  Alright, so, the incredulity smarts just a little, but he’ll put that down to her never bearing witness to someone standing toe to toe with that beanpole of a brother and putting him in his place, a good few pegs _down_ from his status as Tenebrae’s fallen prince.  Still, he pointedly looks from the mug to her empty hands and back again until Luna takes up the hint and cradles it between her palms, fingers locking in place and _how the fuck can she do that without burning herself?_   Witchcraft.  Pure witchcraft.  A beat of silence as she lets the steam curl up off the contents, sniffs at it as delicately as one with busted sinuses can possibly manage, and then she’s fixing him with a suspicious look bordering on a glare.

“This isn’t hot chocolate.”

“Aye it is.  Welcome to the smooth, creamy deliciousness of Galahdian style comfort at its finest, Princess.  Milk, cocoa, brown sugar, vanilla extract, nutmeg, cayenne pepper, cinnamon, and star anise.  If _that_ doesn’t burn the cold right out of you, I don’t know what will.”

“Are you trying to poison me, Nyx Ulric?”

“Oh how you _wound_ me, Lady Lunafreya!  Why if I was such a scoundrel I’d - okay no, this is killing _me_ , no, back to seriousness, please, I’m dying here.”  Rather her stilted giggles are killing him, half-formed raspy things cut too short to avoid setting off a coughing fit, but at least she’s smiling.  That’s a bonus, right?  Right.  And he should figure out - yeah he’s just gonna - stand guard at the window.  Do something productive.  Like he’s supposed to.

_Pull yourself together, Ulric._

“When you say ‘a good number of miles from here’ what, exactly, do you mean?”

“I mean your pooch over there is pretty nifty at the space hopping thing he does, and if your brother’s smart enough to trace the call, he’ll be running all the way to the opposite side of Lucis.  Didn’t even take five minutes.”

Silence, blessed silence.  He flicks open a gap between the blinds with two fingers, peers beyond their room to the streets of Lestallum below, the hustle and bustle of it thankfully muted with the windows locked tight, tracking the sun’s position in the sky and noting how long until nightfall.  It’s a stupid thing to watch, some might argue, but he won’t be caught dead relying on high powered lights to repel the horrors of the night when there’s still some fight left in his bones, scorched and aching though they might be.  That, and he wants to keep an eye out for sunlight glinting off shiny armour so they have a head start if MTs come bulldozing in.

“Can I ask you something, Luna?”

“Haven’t you done just that?”

“... I swear to the Six you’re worse than Libertus.  No, I… in all seriousness… why does something as simple as the common cold affect you like this?  It’s _floored_ you. Is that, I dunno, normal?  For you?  Couldn’t you heal yourself?”

“The magic granted to those of the Oracle line isn’t something to be used for self gain, Nyx.  I can only aid those around me, never myself.”

“Well that’s just _stupid_.”

“It is as it is, and has always been.”  A sigh after that, and the sound of paws scrabbling across the blankets, and he chances a glance over his shoulder to find Luna’s head bowed over the mug, eyes closed in what he _hopes_ is delight, Pryna curled up at her feet, possibly over them.  Has she tried his peace offering for whisking her away from Titan’s bitch fit, or is it weariness sinking hooks into her again, threatening to pull her under?

“You didn’t answer my first question.  Why?”

“The Covenants,” she replies, as if that answers everything, and he waits.  Waits for her to add more, waits for her to gather her thoughts, waits for the curl of anger to loosen its grip on his spine as he watches a couple trade kisses and laughter in broad daylight, leaning into one another as they wander aimlessly.  Tourists?  Locals?  Joyous at Insomnia’s fall?  But no, that isn’t fair, is it?  He’s been beyond the Wall before, knows how cut off the rest of the world is to the happenings inside it.  Maybe news hasn’t hit yet, maybe there’s been no other survivors, maybe -

Maybe his anger is misplaced and useless, a byproduct of stress and betrayal and burning alive at the hands of kings meant to protect their people, so _disconnected_ from the world that they allowed one of their own sign for peace in the name of a lie.

“... To awaken the Astrals an Oracle must… how to say… _give_ something of themselves.  An exchange, if you will.”

“And what could the Astrals possibly want that you have to give?”

“Humanity.  Mortality.  A taste of the frailty they will never experience by grace of who and what they are.”

 _“... What fucking bullshit is that?_   Are you serious?  They, what, drain away some of your life just so you can do your magic equivalent of bashing a gong beside their ears?”  She shrugs her shoulders when he spins to face her, calm where she should be mad, frothing at the mouth, screaming about the injustice of it, of the demands they make and the weight they place on her shoulders and for what?  A few weeks respite from the Scourge for whoever she manages to heal?  Worries put to rest by flowery words and empty promises, only to be dashed to dust when Niflheim rolls in and takes down the defenses keeping daemons at bay?  At the potential cost of her _life?_

“They never take enough to kill me, Nyx.  They cannot.  It would upset the proph-”

 _“Fuck the prophecy,”_ he spits, with enough venom to draw her up short and snap her mouth shut, for Umbra’s head to pop up on the other side of the bed, a warning growl rumbling from him that Nyx chooses to ignore.  He’s of a mind to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, shake shake shake until some common sense pops out of her skull, until she coughs and hiccups and sneezes her way out of a common cold brought on by the very gods she serves _not giving a damn_.  He takes to pacing instead, three strides for every breath, back and forth, back and forth, and not even the sight of the mug half empty can fill him with enough quiet pride to kick out the outrage.

“Correct me if I have any of this wrong.  You can’t heal yourself, because the Astrals say so.  The same Astrals who decided to catnap through the world falling apart around them.  The same Astrals who expect _you_ to go around waking them up in whatever fucked up way you have to that winds up with _you_ sick.  You, the Oracle.  The only one seemingly able to keep the Scourge at bay when humans get infected.  The same humans those Astrals were supposed to protect.  And you turn around and defend them?  Oh well it’s not _that_ bad because it’s just a _little_ bit of your life as payment - no, fuck that.  Tell me I’m wrong.  Tell me I have something massively out of proportion here.  Tell me I’m missing something goddamn important because otherwise I’m seeing a pile of fucked up shit _you shouldn’t be even remotely okay with, Luna_.”

She drops her eyes.  She drops her eyes and replaces the mug where he’d originally set it down and rearranges the blankets and removes the bangles from around her wrists but she _doesn’t make eye contact with him_ and that’s… yeah.  That’s saying something.  The lady with enough of a steel backbone to return verbal fire with General Gla- with Drautos - and jump out an airship and stare down the barrel of a gun and be ready to throw some punches at ancient kings… can’t meet his stare.   _His_.  A Glaive hailing from a place so remote and unimportant the Crown City all but handed it over to the Nifs on a silver platter.

_What the hell have they done to you?_

“Does Noctis know?”  He asks, once he can trust his voice to hold steady.

“No!”  She cries, and that’s a clarion bell of real panic in her voice.  “And he can’t -”

“Why not?”

“He would ask that I cease the covenants if he did.  I know Noctis, he would -”

“That’s my point, Luna.  What I know of the Prince?  He treasures his friends.  I daresay he’d throw himself in the line of fire and die for them in a heartbeat if he had to, fuck the consequences for the rest of Lucis.  He’d want to know what you were risking with this… _price_ the Astrals ask of you.  And since you’re doing this in aid of him he has a _right_ to know.”

“But how?”  Luna asks, and in that one question she sounds so _lost_ that Nyx can’t help but go to her even as Umbra also joins the ladies on the bed, plants his considerable bulk between he and Luna, as ready as Pryna to rip his throat out.  He crouches by the bedside and pulls another cheap phone from his pocket, ever prepared for any scenario, slides it over the sheets until another inch will bring him in contact with her thigh.  Her lips are a thin, thin line, devoid of colour, and he wonders if all that pressure wound up tight in her jaw is stopping it from wobbling just the tiniest bit under his scrutiny, wonders if she had the nerve to stare him down… if he’d see the glimmer of tears there.  If she’s _really_ as fine with this bullshit as she tries to claim.  Wonders if her brother knows, if he’s fallen for this grand act or not.  He sure as shit hopes not, or he’s got another reason to deck Ravus as soon as he lays eyes on the bastard.

“Call him, once you feel better.  Chat with him, be honest with him, arrange a meeting and we’ll go see him, far enough from here that if they trace the call we’ll be long gone and out of range.  Just… be honest with him.  Tell him, so the pair of you can work something out.  Together.”

“But this isn’t the way of things.  We’re not allowed.”

“Says who?  The Astrals?  No, fuck them.  They’re leaving you vulnerable, they could wind up _killing_ you, Luna, and you want to listen to them?  No.  That’s dumb, and you’re dumb for going along with this bullshit up to now.  Listen to me, Luna, and really hear me here.  If you die trying to help Noctis?  Your _best friend_?  It’s gonna haunt him, it might even break him, I know it would for me if I was in his shoes.”

“Nyx -”

“I’m not finished.  Look, I’m not asking you to stop with these Covenants, not right now, because that isn’t my call to make.  I don’t know half the shit going down here, but.  Call Noctis, at the very least.  You owe him that much.  Let him decide for himself whether your life is something he’s willing to gamble with or not.”

“You don’t understand!  I can’t!   _We_ can’t!”

“Why not?!”

“The Astrals, Nyx!  It is _always_ the Astrals.  One cannot disobey and walk away unscathed, it's how humanity is in this mess to begin with!  We do as we are told or we are punished, and the world suffers for it.”

“No,” he says, quietly _livid_ , and offers his hand, palm up, folds his fingers over her own when she takes it after a moment’s hesitation, after a moment afforded to wipe away tears before they can fall.  “I’m not accepting that as an answer.  I’m not letting either of you ask how high when those fucks demand you jump.  Call Noctis, Luna.  Call him and arrange a meeting and fuck this whole shitshow to hell and back,” he squeezes her hand, leans in closer, and if he still had access to the king’s magic then surely his eyes would be alight by now with the fury making his head pound in time to a hectic heartbeat, “and fuck the Astrals.  They can be wrong.  They can bleed.  And if they come after you for choosing to _live_ , then I’ll make them do more than that.  You’re not wasting your life away for a bunch of gods running from their responsibilities, Luna.  I won’t allow it.”

“You’ll die, Nyx.  If you stand against them, they’ll kill you.”  A quiet whisper, a broken, hushed thing wobbling right down the middle, and god, if that doesn’t throw a bucket of water on his temper, cool him off and draw him closer until he’s upsetting the even spread of the mattress to settle beside her, nudging a protective mountain of fur out the way so he can draw her under his arm and hold her close, hug her as tight as he dares considering he’s _him_ and she’s so much more, Oracle and princess both.

“Speak with Noctis,” he says into her hair, daring to leave a kiss upon her temple, “arrange a meeting.  We’ll… deal with whatever comes next when we get to that bridge.”

“... Nyx?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I have another hot chocolate?”

And despite the anger, despite the shock, despite all the worrying from the moment she’d taken that dizzy spell and wound up out cold in his arms, despite the harsh reality of the gods really… _really_ not being on their side… despite it all, he chuckles, even cranes his neck to look at the mug still half full.  Or... still half empty.

Not bad for something she accused him of not being her favourite beverage.

“And what if I decide _I_ need my beauty sleep first?”

“... I suppose I could let you rest.  Or I could kick you in the shin for picking fights with the ancient kings _and_ the gods themselves.”

“Guilty as charged, Princess.”

She _does_ kick him for that one, but she laughs as she does it.

He’ll take that as a small victory.


End file.
